


Bad Connections

by TiggyMalvern



Series: Bad Connections [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AccidentalSex15, Car Sex, Episode: s02e08 Su-zakana, M/M, brief reference to cannibalism (there always is)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 18:09:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12152022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiggyMalvern/pseuds/TiggyMalvern
Summary: For the prompt: #AccidentalSex15: “I’m fixing your *insert appliance/furniture/house thing here* for you and now I’m sweaty and half naked and you’re drooling” sex. Season two Will takes the seduction further...





	Bad Connections

**Author's Note:**

> It didn’t turn out an exact fit for the prompt, because it's a car and Hannibal was always filmed in winter, so not so much sweating. And it got dark, because, yeah, Hannibal and Will. I still gave it a suitably awful porn-style title though.
> 
> Takes place during Su-zakana, between the trout dinner and the discovery of the body at the stables.
> 
> Many thanks to [youweresoafraid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_canonical/pseuds/YouWereSoAfraid) for the beta.

The raindrops spatter heavy against the windshield, the wipers sweeping back and forth to erase the marks of their passing, steady and hypnotic. The engine hums low, refined, barely present under the swish of tyres on wet pavement. The suspension rides the bumps soft as a yacht rocking in a harbour, the leather seat is broad and comfortable, and Will could almost fall asleep in the dim glow from the dash.

Almost. He’s not as complacent in the presence of the driver now as he used to be.

Will tips his head back against the rest, resisting the temptation to close his eyes. It’s getting on for one in the morning, he’s spent the last two hours at some messy murder scene that anyone from homicide would have figured out, given a day, and he could be at home in bed with the dogs, instead of being chauffeured through the empty night by a serial killer. 

He could be, but he’s not, because he chose to do this instead, and Jack will take any excuse to call them in together, to give Will a chance to get closer. 

Hannibal glances away from the road, his eyes resting briefly on Will before moving back to the track of the headlamps. “I find it curious that Jack felt the need to have us both make the journey out to Warrenton tonight. I’m sure either one of us alone could have supplied the answers he needed.”

Hannibal can’t really read Will’s mind – he’d already be dead and weighted down in a nice deep lake somewhere, if he could – but sometimes he comes uncomfortably close.

Will stretches his legs further into the footwell, and keeps his eyes fixed on the rows of trees speeding by outside the windows. “Jack’s semi-official position is that it’s good for me to have a support network after ‘certain events’ better left unspecified. I think he’s easing me back in with a basic one before he turns me loose on anything especially juicy.”

Hannibal gives him another sideways look, and a light huff of amusement. “He believes his china teacup should be removed carefully from storage.”

Will slows his next words for emphasis, stretching them out into something of a drawl. “The unofficial position is that I might not have gone crazy and killed a half a dozen people, but I still went crazy with a brain disease, contaminated crime scenes and accused an innocent man of mass murder.” His eyes drift over to sit on Hannibal when he says that last part, watching his lips quirk in the smug delight that consumes Will with a delirious urge to hit him, and keep on hitting him until his face disappears into a bloodied pulp.

“You believe my role is more of a baby-sitter than an insurance policy.” Hannibal’s expression hasn’t changed, but there’s something mildly offended underlying his tone. Whether it’s there because Hannibal resents his time being wasted like this, or he dislikes the idea of Will needing a caretaker, Will can’t say.

Will shrugs, and lets his voice drop closer to his normal rhythms. “It’s going to take at least a year of crime scenes for me to drag together the tattered remnants of my professional reputation.” He doesn’t give a horse’s ass about his professional reputation, not anymore; when this is over and Hannibal’s in a cell, he’ll be done with the FBI even faster than they’d ditched him.

He’s not expecting an apology from Hannibal, but it still irks him when he doesn’t get one. Instead, Hannibal gives him a look of curious intensity, and says, “I believe you to be capable of doing absolutely anything you want to do, Will.” 

It’s in no fucking way reassuring, given the source and the implications. 

He wants to get his life back to how it was before Hannibal screwed with it, rinse his head clean of all the images Hannibal puts in there. There were horrific images inside of him before Hannibal, and they’ll still be there after, he knows that, but Hannibal somehow makes them _more_. More vivid, more frequent, more… sticky.

He’s saved from deciding how to answer when the Bentley’s low purr hesitates, then stutters into a lingering cough. Hannibal eases back on the gas, letting the car slow a little, but nothing changes, and the engine splutters one last time before it quits completely.

The lights are still on, glistening wetly from the road ahead, so it’s not a full electrical shutdown and they’re not driving blind. It’s most likely the fuel system or some localised short in the wiring.

Hannibal coasts the car to a halt, pulling over towards the line of trees and he flicks on the hazards when they stop. The reflected yellow glow flashes through the cabin, and Hannibal waits twenty seconds or so, then tries the ignition again. The Bentley’s engine turns over easily enough, but it doesn’t catch.

Will’s not going to ask if there’s gas in the tank. Hannibal’s ordered and meticulous, and Will’s already familiar with the expression of offended disappointment he’ll get if he does.

There’s still something of that look about him when he turns his head to Will, but it’s directed at the car, not its passenger. “I apologise, Will. I wouldn’t have offered to drive you if I had suspected any unreliability. I assure you I have my car serviced by a reputable mechanic.”

Will never had any doubts on that. Hannibal isn’t someone who would fail to maintain vital equipment, and Will really can’t see him wriggling on his back to change the oil himself.

Hannibal reaches into his pocket, drawing out his phone. “I’ll call the triple A. They will send someone to us shortly.”

Will reaches across, hand on his arm, and Hannibal halts instantly at the touch. “Let me take a look first. It might be a simple fix I can have done in five minutes. We’ll be waiting an hour for a repair truck.” They’re nearly twenty miles out from the nearest town with a garage, and there’s the weather and the time of night to account for.

The only part of Hannibal still moving is his eyes, sliding up from his jacket onto Will. “Perhaps that would be wise.”

Will opens the door and hops out, heading for the rear of the car to check the obvious before he starts poking around under the hood. At least the rain’s eased off for now, more of a thick mist that hangs in the air and sporadically drips from it.

He crouches down by the wheel arch and calls out, “Try it again.” The engine cranks and doesn’t fire, the same as last time, but there’s no clicking of a fuel pump trying and failing to establish pressure. It’s either fine or it’s completely dead, and sudden catastrophic failure is unlikely.

He goes back to his opened door, telling Hannibal to pop the hood. He shrugs out of his coat and folds it across the passenger seat, then undoes his cuffs and rolls his sleeves back to his elbows. Will spent maybe half his savings upgrading his wardrobe to something Hannibal wouldn’t despise. He can afford to replace a shirt, if he has to, but he’s not buying another four hundred dollar overcoat.

Will feels along the edge of the hood to find the catch that will fully release it. He hooks up the support, and looks over the expanse of engine that barely fits inside the massive space – a 6.75 litre pushrod V8, Rolls-Royce via Cosworth, a little old school, but that suits Will just fine. He’s more comfortable with pure mechanics, and minimal electronic wizardry.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his pants, flips through the apps to the screen light, and hands it to Hannibal, who’s deigned to join him out in the damp. “Hold this up so I can see.”

Hannibal looks down at the phone with the same expression he wore when he commented on Will’s aftershave. “I believe I have a torch alongside the toolkit.”

A torch? Will has a brief vision of Hannibal wielding a flaming chunk of wood and pitch, leading the villagers up to the hill to Dracula’s castle, but when Hannibal emerges from the trunk a minute later, he switches on an LED flashlight that’s a lot brighter than Will’s phone. “Thanks,” Will tells him with a quick smile, and it’s odd how easy it comes to give it.

Hannibal brought the toolkit too, and Will pulls out a wrench and a pair of pliers to poke around with, because a lot of the metal’s too hot to stick his hands in. This could still be a fuel problem – air or dirt in the lines, a clogged filter, or maybe the lines are just leaking – but Will won’t be able to fix any of those in the dark without tools or spares, so he goes to check over the electrics. 

His breath hitches a little as Hannibal moves up behind him to shine the light over Will’s shoulder; miles from anywhere in the night and he’s turning his back on a singularly ruthless mass murderer. Will’s never considered himself an adrenaline junkie, but the tingling at the nape of his neck carries a charged undertone that isn’t wholly objectionable.

With the plastic cover off and the full glow of the flashlight cast deep into the workings, Will’s pleasantly surprised by the condition of what he sees. Whichever mechanic usually services this car for Hannibal isn’t the type who leaves oil smears around after a change. He might even be able to get out of this without buying a new shirt.

He starts with the spark plugs, working through the wiring and the gaps, but everything checks out superficially, the connections firm with no sign of corrosion, and the fuel injectors are clean. The residual heat rising from the engine makes for delicate work, but it’s a welcome contrast to the ambient temperature. It’s bitterly cold this late with only a shirt on, the bite of the breeze dragging lines of goose-bumps across his bare forearms. Hannibal takes a step to Will’s left and slightly closer in, and the teeth are gone from Will’s skin, Hannibal’s body set between himself and the wind.

Will’s teeth clench and he concentrates on the engine and says nothing, because Hannibal deliberately and systematically screwed over his entire life, and he murdered Beverly and Abigail, and these little gestures and moments of thoughtfulness he offers aren’t fucking _fair._

He’s going to have to delve deeper into the mechanicals at this point, and he mentally says goodbye to his shirt, because no engine bay’s ever that clean outside of a concours event. He leans further into the cramped spaces between the engine and its mounts, rain-wet cotton stretching tight and chilled across his shoulder blades, and he systemically follows through the rest of the wiring, jiggling each connection with the pliers to check if it’s firm, examining every length for insulation that’s frayed, or chewed by mice. 

Hannibal’s unusually quiet through all of it, patiently directing the light without comment, probably because Will’s found one of the few subjects he doesn’t know enough about to have an opinion on.

Will finds the problem at the right of the engine, low down near the back. “It’s the crank sensor,” he tells Hannibal. “The connector’s worked loose. It could have been that way a while, but now it’s gotten wet with the spray.” He keeps one hand on the problem wiring, still bent over the engine, and he holds the other out to Hannibal without turning to look. “I need a cloth, something to dry it off with before I tighten it.” 

Hannibal doesn’t step away, but the light wobbles as he shifts around, and then he presses something ridiculously soft into Will’s hand. Will pulls it back into the beam and finds himself holding Hannibal’s pocket square – not exactly what he had in mind, but he can make it work. Hannibal can definitely afford a new one, if Will’s going to have to buy another shirt.

He dabs carefully over the connector and the sensor body, wicking the moisture away one drop at a time. Rubbing at it and leaving fibres stuck in there wouldn’t be any help. Hannibal leans in alongside him to watch, and Will’s aware of everything he does, and still he’s totally relaxed.

He knows exactly who Hannibal is, and he’s not likely to forget, but when he’s distracted like this, all his thoughts focussed forwards on the problem, Hannibal almost slips back into being _Hannibal_ , the man whose company and conversation enlivened his life and his mind, back before that moment of bitter, seeping revelation in the Hobbs kitchen.

Will knows everything that Hannibal’s done, all the finest details of what and when and how, and yet here and now with Hannibal so close he’s almost breathing on his neck, he’s entirely safe, without a flicker of concern. There isn’t a single other human anywhere on the planet that that would be true for, and when he thinks about it like that, it’s strangely more exhilarating than disturbing.

Will breathes a little deeper, his hands steady in his work, and he finishes drying everything off and screws the connector back into place, tightening it with a wrench. 

Hannibal straightens when he finishes and takes a step back, giving Will space. Will sets his hands on the edge of the engine bay, pushing himself upright, and then he stalls half-way turned because now he’s actually _looking_ at Hannibal.

Hannibal’s coated in a fine mist of water droplets, his clothes, his newly loose flopping hair, even his goddamn eyelashes, every one a glowing silver halo in the headlamps, flashing gold as the hazards blink, and none of that carries even half the impact of his eyes. His eyes dominate his face, huge and black, and that could be from the moonless night, sure, but it’s not the dark, not the way they’re fixed on Will; they’re unblinking and undeniably _hungry._

Oh. Well, shit.

He’d told Chilton with easy confidence that Hannibal wanted to be his friend, and that was the truth. He hadn’t –

Hannibal hadn’t looked at him like this before he was arrested – had he? Will’s pretty sure he would have noticed, but he’s suddenly really aware there’s a lot of things he might have missed in that last month or so before his encephalitis was treated. It took him weeks to remember Hannibal shoving an _ear_ down his throat, for fuck’s sake, and there’s not much that’s more unsubtle than that.

Will gives one quick glance down, because he knows what he’s going to see, but he still needs the confirmation, and Hannibal’s erection is a thick and obvious outline pressing against the wool of his pants.

A rush of dizziness sweeps through Will as the two concepts crash together in his mind; acid scalds in his throat and his arms stiffen to hold himself upright, because for a moment he’s out here isolated and stranded with somebody who might have _molested_ him and he wouldn’t even _know_ – and then he shrugs the picture-flash from his imagination, because instantly it’s wrong.

Hannibal framing him for murder, that was more practical than an indulgence, a way for Hannibal to protect himself from Will’s inevitable accusations without the unpleasantness of killing Will. There was never anything sexual about the Ripper murders or the copycat killings, even when the victims were young and attractive. It was always art, and making a spiked commentary through the application of detached sadism. Hannibal wouldn’t get any real enjoyment from a Will he couldn’t fully interact with.

Will’s fingers loosen on the wrench, the colour flooding back into his blanched nails in the harsh beam of the flashlight, and he straightens the rest of the way and replaces the engine cover before he closes the hood. The bang echoes loud over the rush of the wind through naked branches, in an otherwise empty night.

Hannibal won’t comment on it, obviously. Drawing attention to something that’s already clear enough if Will wants to know it would be… an imposition. Drugging Will and making him swallow a piece of _Abigail_ is perfectly justifiable, but mentioning that watching Will bent over his car has given him a hard-on, that would be crass.

He can ignore this now, and Hannibal will courteously do the same, and they’ll both go on as if Will had never noticed. Simple.

Simple, and yet – he needs to get close to Hannibal. 

It’s not as if he hasn’t thought about it. Of something physical with Hannibal. He has, or at least he had before he’d gotten so sick that all sexual thoughts vanished from his life along with any hint of an erection. He remembers Hannibal in the back of the ambulance, stepping in calm and confident to clamp off an artery, remembers his cock swelling as he considered that Hannibal’s hands would be just as sure and dextrous on his body, or pressing into his ass. 

He decides not to look too closely into the fact that the first memory he has of a conscious physical reaction to Hannibal was when Hannibal was up to his elbows in somebody else’s organs.

He’s not exactly unaffected by it now.

“Thank you for your assistance, Will,” Hannibal says politely, breaking the edged silence, and it’s only because he’s spent so many hours listening to him elaborate on a hundred different subjects that Will can hear the tension idling beneath his words. “I believe you’ll need these.” Hannibal opens and offers a small plastic tub, and Will peels off two of the damp gauzes, because of course Hannibal keeps a supply of alcohol wipes in the trunk along with his toolkit. Though there might be other things he wants them for that don’t involve engines. 

He only has a few more seconds before Hannibal takes Will’s quiet as a no, and turns away.

He casts a deliberate and lingering look down to where the cloth at Hannibal’s crotch stretches full and tight, and then he brings his gaze back up to meet Hannibal’s, a slight curve at his lips. “I didn’t think dripping wet with a layer of dirt and oil would appeal to your exacting aesthetics, Doctor,” he says, and he drags the first wipe meticulous and slow along the length of one finger, twisting as it slides over his skin.

“Normally, no,” Hannibal says, and his eyes flick down to Will’s hands and follow his movements, “but physical desire is largely contextual.” His lips stay parted as he breathes. “I have often been attracted to displays of competence and skill in areas where I lack them, and I find I am attracted to you, Will, in almost any circumstance.”

The intensity of him, his focus, his words, the force of his lust, they coalesce to burn like a flare in Will’s head. Hannibal’s always been striking, but with this much energy thrumming tight below the surface restraint, the only word that really fits him is compelling. Will’s own cock is shifting, swelling against his thigh, and his shirt’s still clinging damp all across his back and shoulders, but there’s a heat rising through him now beneath the chill.

He takes that one step closer, and presses his newly cleaned hand down over Hannibal’s erection; it leaps into his touch, twitching beneath the cloth, and Hannibal’s breath is audible as he sucks in air, fast and sharp.

Hannibal’s making this ridiculously easy, and Will smiles at the sensation surging inside him, the pure, steady confidence. It’s not the same as killing, not the same vicious pleasure as Hobbs, but it’s not so different – the sweeping power that comes with having this effect on Hannibal, that he can do this to a man so self-satisfied in his own control, and he didn’t even have to _try._

“You should get in the car,” he says, and he doesn’t frame it as a suggestion, because Hannibal’s not going to say no.

Hannibal’s tongue flicks over his lips, wet and glistening in the headlamps. “If you will allow me a moment,” he says as he backs away, and Will’s palm already misses the firmness of him, the proof of his desire.

This spontaneous alteration to his plan is going to be a lot more palatable than sitting at Hannibal’s dinner table and eating… whatever Hannibal feeds him. As a bonus, it isn’t even illegal.

Hannibal takes the toolkit and the flashlight to the trunk, and returns with a bundle of cloth folded over his arm that he spreads across the back seat of the Bentley, because obviously Hannibal won’t carry a mechanic’s rag, but he’ll keep a blanket in his car in case someone might drip on the leather. And then Hannibal’s sliding into that dimly lit interior and all along the seat, and Will follows him in and tugs the door shut after him.

Hannibal’s settled half-sideways, one arm stretched out along the top of the seat between the headrests, his legs stretched wide, because there’s enough room in this car for him to do it. The way he’s sprawled is an artful mockery of casual, the wool of his pants pulled taut along his cock, his lips parted to show the first hint of teeth, and somehow he looks even better when he’s rain-damp with hair straggling down over his eyes than he does when he’s immaculate. 

Will’s gaze sinks down into his lap, because he wants the press of him in his hand again, and his fingers are already there, working on belt and buttons, wanting to feel him for real, the deep, blood-heat of him. And Hannibal reaches out his own hand to Will’s zipper, twisting his wrist to tug it down, and as he does his sleeve pulls back, exposing the start of the angry red scar that disappears beneath the cuff. Will’s lungs freeze and his eyes fixate on it, the mark he knew was there but has never seen, this proof of who he is and what he became, an immediate and stunning reminder that Will’s not the only one hurling himself out on a limb tonight. 

They both know what’s at stake in this, and they’re both doing it anyway.

Will’s breath hitches as it restarts, and he’s watching Hannibal’s hand move to his underwear now, and he’s hard and twitching even before he’s touched. 

He didn’t ever lose enough of his dignity to jerk off in the surveilled confines of the BSHCI, even though it might have helped him sleep a hell of a lot better, and before his arrest he was running a temperature of a hundred and three. His dick’s not been touched in months, including by himself, and it’s not surprising that it’s eager now, pressing out past his waistband and into a grasping hand, even when that hand belongs to a murderer. Even when he’s pushing forty and getting sexed up in somebody else’s car, and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t done that since high school, and not so often then, and he’d give just about anything to be that innocent again, because why is his life so endlessly fucked up, and how the hell did he get to be someone who jerks off a serial killer in the back of a Bentley?

He has to laugh at that, short and cracked, and Hannibal puts his free hand to his jaw and tips Will’s head up to his own eyes. “Would you care to share the joke, Will?”

Will angles his face in a way that presses his skin further into Hannibal’s touch. “You don’t think there’s something bizarre about two middle aged men having sexual relations in the back seat of a car, a few weeks after one of them nearly murdered the other?”

The wrinkles deepen momentarily around Hannibal’s eyes and the curve of his lips, and even in the dim light Will’s close enough to see. “When you describe our circumstances in that specific way, perhaps there is some amusement value,” Hannibal says, and then his expression shifts, weighty and earnest as his thumb slides a slow circle over Will’s chin. “But you and I have lived our entire lives far from the dull and the ordinary.”

“I can’t imagine there’s a reason to stop now,” Will says with an arch of his eyebrows, and he finally frees Hannibal’s cock from the layers of cloth, taking him heavy and velvet-soft and sweat-damp in his hand. The scent rises from his bared skin, the musk of heat and arousal stark beneath the damp wool and the lingering remnants of expensive cologne, and Will draws his fingers over him, light and teasing to where the pre-come smears at the tip.

Hannibal exhales long and slow and smiles, his own hand starting to move on Will, and Will shifts his hips to make the angle easier. “I would be terribly disappointed if we did.” Hannibal’s not talking about sex, or not just about the sex, and Will arches into his grip, urging more of his touch, and speeds his own strokes on Hannibal when he complies. The blanket slips beneath him, no anchor on the smooth polish of the leather, and Will lurches nearer, almost falling into Hannibal before he stops the slide by grabbing the seat, his head dropping to watch their hands, their hands on each other as they merge into a rhythm, a shared momentum of wrists and breath.

Will’s eyelids drift closed, because he doesn’t need to look, he only needs to live it, the solid warmth of Hannibal in his fingers, the gliding pressure of Hannibal’s grip on him, the lust heightening through both of them, his own speeding to catch and match Hannibal’s. The hold on his jaw vanishes, a slow caress travelling the length of his cheek instead, and his eyes spring open reflexively. “Don’t leave me, Will,” Hannibal says, and the atmosphere is thick and heated, moisture rising from their clothes and skin to condense over the windows, sealing them inside this shrunken space together. 

He keeps his attention locked on Hannibal’s neck, on the roughened skin of his throat, because there’s enough of Will exposed right now without looking directly into him, and Hannibal sees the direction of his gaze. “Are you thinking of killing me again, Will?” His voice is low and rasping, his accent thick as his fingers stroke and twist around Will’s cock. “I’m right here; you would only need to move your hand to grasp and hold a different part of my body.” He sways in a little closer, his voice almost a whisper. “I might not even pull away.”

The image flashes fully realised into Will’s head, every detail of sensation, of grabbing and crushing, Hannibal’s late-night stubble harsh against his palm, the cartilage of his throat resisting before it collapses in his grip. He lets himself feel it as reality for that single second, just one, and then he shakes it loose, flipping mentally back into a world where his hand is rhythmically stroking along the full length of Hannibal’s cock. 

“I’m not thinking about killing you, not right now,” Will says, and the grin he offers is vivid and real. “Though I’m making no promises for tomorrow.” He’s feeling too good in this moment, too indulgent and horny to want to kill anyone, even Hannibal, plus he’d really like to make it home to his bed at some point tonight, and explaining to the cops why he strangled his on-off therapist, occasional co-worker and supposed friend would play havoc with his plans to sleep. And then the thoughts of ‘Hannibal’ and ‘bed’ collide, and he’s envisioning how this will be when there’s more space and fewer clothes, how Hannibal will look and move and feel under his hands, because this will go somewhere after tonight, he knows that; nothing with Hannibal ever stops, it only spirals deeper and further and faster with each spin around.

It's spiralling in him now, inevitably, tightening through his head and his belly and his balls as Hannibal’s hand works him up into more, and it’s no surprise to Will when he comes first, shivering and panting and spurting thick white streaks over Hannibal’s hand and his own clothes. He’s lost his rhythm on Hannibal, gripping him motionless while he shakes and breathes through the end of it, and they’re both still holding each other, even as Will feels himself starting to soften. 

He’s drawn back to Hannibal’s face because he can’t not look, at a Hannibal who stares with blackened eyes catching a single highlight among the shadows, who breathes through open, rounded lips with his chest heaving beneath his waistcoat, who waits for Will to gather himself and finish him, sprawled here wanting and enduringly patient. Will’s still looking when he starts to move his hand again, still looking when Hannibal arches and pushes, when Hannibal’s cock quivers in his hand and he comes over both of them, because all the reasons Will liked Hannibal are still here – his intelligence, his wit, his charm, his preternatural calm in a crisis, his genuine and total interest in _Will._ They were real, and they haven’t changed, and manipulative cannibal serial killer is kind of a game-changing addition to that list, but it hasn’t over-written everything that was there before, it _can’t._

He’s still looking when Hannibal’s clean hand leaves Will’s face to fish a travel sized packet from his clothing – not the alcohol wipes this time, just plain tissues – and he shares them with Will. Will’s eyes finally drop away then to dry himself off, dabbing streaks of his own come from his oil-smudged shirt, rubbing Hannibal’s semen where it’s smeared between his fingers, and Hannibal offers the now-empty plastic wrapper to shove them into when he’s done. 

Hannibal leans in closer, and Will’s tongue circles round his lips, wetting them; the air flows cool over their damp surface as he breathes in. Hannibal’s hands go to Will’s groin and tuck his softened cock back into his underwear, and then he draws away and twists to open the door behind him. “Perhaps I should test the engine and we can start on our way,” he says. “I believe we both have work tomorrow and we’ll need at least a few hours of sleep.” He slides out and moves round to the driver’s seat, leaving Will half-crouched in a rush of freezing wind.

Will’s own hands move to his crotch where Hannibal’s just were, cupping himself briefly before he tugs at his zipper, sealing himself away from the cold. For a moment he’d actually thought - he’d been _sure_ that Hannibal was going to kiss him, and he’d been ready for it, waiting for it; frustration lurches sick inside his stomach, because he’d _wanted_ it.

He unfolds out of the back of the car and opens the passenger door, picking up his coat before he climbs in, silent alongside a killer. The Bentley’s engine turns and catches and flares smoothly into life, Hannibal offering him a smile, warm and genuine, and Will settles into his seat with the knowledge glistening in his head, newly hatched and instantly starting to crawl.

He’s not been physically fucked by Hannibal, not yet, though he’s sure he will be, and there’s twisting heat curled with the dread inside his gut because he already knows he wants it. 

Hannibal turns up the fans that blow onto the windshield, the layer of condensation blasted away in a wavering line that creeps upwards to leave Will’s vision clear in front of him. 

Metaphorically, he’s realising now, he was probably fucked a long time ago.

**Author's Note:**

> Certain elements of the mechanical descriptions in this fic are plausible, and certain elements are bullshit. Google refused to tell me, for instance, where exactly the crank sensor is located on this particular engine, or which of the three sensor types it has, and at first that annoyed my detail-oriented brain, and then I decided that the mechanical stuff really isn’t the point of the fic and made something up. If anyone happens to know the finer points of the Cosworth-built Rolls Royce 6.75 litre then please don’t tell me, because I put conscious effort into my decision not to care!
> 
> I'm [here](https://tiggymalvern.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to tell me anything else :-)


End file.
